


Maybe It's For The Best

by Lennelle



Series: Sam-centric Reader's Prompts [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Domestic Winchesters, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Issues, Gen, Heart Transplant, John Winchester's Questionable Parenting, Major Illness, Organ Transplantation, Pre-Series, Sick Sam Winchester, Stanford Era, Terminal Illnesses, heart and lung transplant, lung problems, pulmonary hypertension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:38:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's sick. Real sick. And maybe it's time for Winchesters to put their stubbornness aside and figure something out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe It's For The Best

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Anonymous: For a prompt, I have actually been hoping to see a Stanford story where Sam is either critically hurt or very sick and Dean and John have to find out from an outsider (maybe Bobby or Jim). I would prefer this to either be before Jess or AU without Jess. Just guilty Dean and John because they weren't around and plenty of sick or hurt Sam!
> 
> The ending is supposed to be written in a way that is open to interpretation.

She wails when the flames go up. She shrieks at them _you're making a huge mistake_ and _you will burn for eternity for this_ , and, really, it's a huge relief once she's burned away to wherever the hell ghosts go because she just wouldn't _shut up_.

She can preach to Dean about how he's going to hell as much as she likes but he'll probably meet her there one day because the psycho bitch had already killed three little kids before he and his dad had managed to get there.

He glances down into the grave where her bones are charring and he flips the bird like maybe she'll get the message even though she's already gone. They saved the fourth kid, at least. A little boy with soft brown hair and biggest doe eyes Dean has seen since Sammy was only small. She was telling the kid to jump out the window, and he was about to when John leapt into the room and blew her away with rock salt. The blast of it threw the kid off balance but Dean was half-hanging out the window below just in case and he caught the boy before he could have a meeting with the concrete pavement below.

John claps Dean on the shoulder and joins him as they look down at the blazing grave. "Good job, son," he says. Dean might be twenty-five years old, he spent his birthday filling a werewolf with silver bullets and it was awesome, but he can't help the goofy grin that spreads across his face. Of course, he's left with the job of filling the grave in so he doesn't see his dad back at the motel room for another couple of hours.

By the time he gets back, his feet are screaming at him, he's covered in dirt, and he's pretty much about to drop any second. He stumbles into the motel room, already shedding his jacket. He kicks the door shut behind him and trudges towards the bathroom. He pauses when he realises his dad is packing.

"I thought we weren't leaving 'til morning," Dean says.

"Change of plan," John tells him quickly, there's an edge to his voice that Dean can't quite decipher. "We're going to Palo Alto."

"Palo…" Dean blinks, it takes his dog-tired brain a moment longer to catch up. He finally puts two and two together. "Sammy. Is he okay?"

John pauses in sheathing his knife. He sighs heavily and drops it into the bag carelessly, turning to Dean. "He's sick, son."

"Sick?" Dean repeats, because things are taking him longer to process tonight. "You mean sick like ate-some-bad-seafood sick, or sick like swollen-tonsils-and-stuffy-nose sick?"

"Sick like we-need-to-be-there sick," John says. He speaks softly like he used to when Dean was five and didn't feel like talking and John was just trying to get him to say _something_.

"He's not…" Dean can't say it. "Is he, dad?"

"I don't know. I just know that Sam's real sick, has been for a while, and he needs us."

"I don't understand," Dean says helplessly because _Sam was supposed to be safe at school_.

"I'm not sure I do either," John admits, and he goes back to silently packing his bag. Within the hour, once Dean is clean and packed, they take the truck and the Impala on the road and drive south.

 

* * *

 

 

They had to stop in the night because Dean was close to falling asleep at the wheel, the car almost veered off the road but John honked his horn and jerked Dean awake. Now, Dean is passing the California state sign and his body aches from sleeping parked at the side of the road. John leaves him a message on his cell; they've still got a way to go before they get to Palo Alto so they're going to stop at the next diner they see.

The first diner is a couple of miles from any town. It's called _Lulu's_ and it boasts the best pie on the west coast. Dean would be willing to test that if he didn't feel so sick to his stomach with worry. The place is mostly occupied by truckers chugging down coffee, but there are plenty of free booths. John and Dean drop tiredly into the nearest one. The place their orders and wait.

"You still haven't actually told me what's wrong," Dean says.

"Sam's sick," John replies, he's writing in his journal but Dean can't see because his dad's hand is in the way.

"I already know that," Dean sighs, frustrated, "But what exactly is wrong with him? I need to know if this is, you know, life-or-death."

John's scribbling pauses and he looks up. "I don't know the details, Dean," he says. "Jim called me last night and told me that Sam was sick, had been for a while. He said that Sam begged him not to tell us, but things are worse recently and Jim had to break his promise."

"Did he say what it is?" Dean asks hesitantly.

John shakes his head. "It was a short conversation. It seems like Jim's been helping Sam out financially since he's not fit to work. Apparently, Sammy's still in school but Jim's concerned he might not be able to keep it up the way things are going."

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth, his mind is already wandering off to dark places. He thinks of Sam in a wheelchair, Sam with his hair falling out, Sam puking up his insides, all pale and bloody and _dying_. The waitress arrives with their orders, toast and eggs for Dad, bacon and maple pancakes for Dean. He glances down at the plate, noticing the greasy sheen on the ceramic. He picks at his food. He doesn't feel hungry anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Dad knows where Sam lives. Of course, Dad knows. Dad knows everything. Dean knew where Sam's dorm was last year, he'd even been in there in one of the few occasions he had visited before they cut ties properly. That hadn't been too long ago, only several months. Was Sam sick back then? Had he not told Dean? Even worse, did Dean not notice?

Accommodation-wise Sammy seems to have gotten himself an upgrade, Dean thinks as he parks behind his dad beside a small apartment building. A couple of students come out, they're holding hands and carrying heavy-looking bags. They smile and laugh together, they seem happy. The whole place is light and sunny, everything seems brighter with the yellow-stone buildings and the fresh green trees. It's easy to see why Sam had wanted to come here.

He follows John's lead up the path. Dean scans the bells and their occupant's names until he finds _Winchester_ at the bottom. 1b, a room on the first floor. More thoughts are making their unwelcome way into Dean's head. Is Sam on the ground floor because he can't use stairs anymore?

Meanwhile, John is picking the lock. Sam's door is right in his face once they're inside. 1b stares at him to his left. It stares at him harder while he waits for John to break in.

It's a small apartment, but big enough to even fit a sasquatch like Sam. It's all one room, with a kitchenette, a two-person dining table in one corner and a bed in the other. The walls are bare and most of the action seems to be taking place on the desk by the bed where there's a mountain of books and a spread of papers and notebooks. What a nerd.

John shuffles around the kitchen, checking through the cupboards, and Dean heads over to the bathroom. The bath is about half the length of Sam but at least there's a stand-in shower. He notices some fruity-looking shampoos and can't help smiling. "Smellin' like strawberries, Samantha?"

The contents of the cupboard above the sink wipes the smile off his face. Orange bottles, a crap load of them. He twists them all around to scan the labels; Diltiazem, Adenosine, Sildenafil, Macitentan, Spironolactone, Warfarin…

Some are fuller than others, looking abandoned at the back of the shelf. He squints at the section marked _side effects_ and almost immediately regrets it. The visual proof is like a hard smack in the face; Sam is sick. There's no denying it anymore. All these long, complicated words and Dean still doesn't know what's wrong with his brother.

He almost jumps out of his skin when his dad appears at his shoulder, looking at the bottles.

"You know what any of that means?" Dean asks.

"No," his dad answers. "We'll just have to wait for him to come back."

"He's gonna be pissed," Dean says, wandering back into the main room and dropping down on the edge of Sam's bed. He's still bone-tired and desperate for some sleep, but sleep has to wait, it's not like he hasn't run on less. A framed photo on the bedside table catches his eye. It's their mom and dad. They're smiling, and Dean smiles as he remembers times like those. This photo is Sam's only indicator that times like those even existed. He's about to pick it up to get a closer look when he hears a key scrape the front door's lock. It opens and Sam steps in. He doesn't look surprised. The first thing he says is, "I leave to take my trash out back for five minutes and you psychos break in."

He tosses his keys onto the desk and glares at the two of them. "By the way, those monster cars you drive are kind of a giveaway."

Dean's too busy staring at the kid, noting that he's walking and talking, has all of his hair and limbs. He's looking a little pale and breathless, shoulders heavy and eyes bruised-looking. When no one else does, John speaks instead.

"We came to see you."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Seriously?" he walks right by them to the kitchenette and grabs a glass from the cupboard. He fills it with tap water and takes a long drink. "Last time we spoke, you made it really clear you didn't want to see me again."

John ignores that and says, "Jim called me."

Sam freezes, glancing down at the half-empty glass in his hand. "He had no right to do that," Sam says softly, breathlessly. He places the glass on the bench and leans against the counter, taking a deep inhale. His hand snakes up to his chest, and he bows his head. It takes Dean a moment to realise that the way Sam's mouth is set is an indicator that he's in pain. He hurries over and directs him to the kitchen chair.

"What's going on?" he asks worriedly.

"Nothin'," Sam gasps, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Don't _nothing'_ me, Sammy," Dean snaps. "Let me help you, you idiot."

Sam shakes his head. "It'll pass," he promises, teeth gritting together. "Gimme a minute."

They wait. It doesn't last long, whatever's hurting Sam, and soon enough he's rubbing his chest and relaxing into the chair with deep breaths. Eventually, he dares to look up at them.

"Can you get something for me?" he asks, the hesitancy in his voice makes it clear how much he'd rather not ask for their help.

"Anything," Dean replies, one foot already inching closer.

"Under the bed," Sam gasps, Dean notices his lips are a little blue. "There's, um, oxygen and… just bring all the stuff that's under the bed."

Dean hurries over and dips down. John, who was standing closer to the bed than Dean was, doesn't move. Dean finds a bunch of tubes and other scary medical machines. He hauls them all out and places them on the table in front of Sam. Sam slowly starts setting things up, by the time he's done he's wearing a nasal cannula and breathing better.

"I should probably have been wearing that anyway but I didn't think it would matter since I was only going outside for two minutes," he says, mostly to himself.

"Sam, what is this?" John asks, he's staring at Sam. John Winchester never stares.

"Pulmonary Hypertension," Sam says. "Means my lungs are fucked up."

"Kinda guessed that," Dean mumbles, gesturing to the oxygen tank.

"So, are you here to weep at my bedside or what?" Sam asks, fiddling with the tube around his neck.

"We came to see how you were," John says, he sounds a little angry. Dean inches a little between them. "Jim told me you were seriously sick. Of course I'd come to see you, you're my son."

Sam glares at him. "Am I? You pretty much told me to stay gone, Dad. That's not something you say to your son."

"I do my best to keep you safe, damn it!" John snaps. "Do you really think I don't give a damn about you?"

"Guys!" Dean yells before Sam can open his mouth. "It's been five minutes and you're already down each other's throats. Quit it, alright?"

Sam looks away and John softens. "Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you couldn't ask us for help."

Sam gives a small nod.

"We good then?" Dean asks, everyone nods. Dean will take what he can get. He turns back to Sam. "So you've got pulmonary hyper-something?"

Sam sighs. "Pulmonary Hypertension," he corrects. "High pressure in the arteries in my lungs. Means I can't breathe too well, means my hearts working too hard, means it's going to fail one day."

And isn't that just a real kick in the jewels. Maybe Dean was getting cocky by thinking this wouldn't be something terminal. No one speaks, Dean and John because they're still processing it, and Sam because he's too busy trying to breathe.

"But they can do something, right?" Dean finally says. "Doctors can do something."

"I'm on meds," Sam says. "But the only thing that's going to fix it is a transplant."

Dean perks up. "Okay, so we get you some working lungs."

Sam smiles at him softly. "It's not that easy."

"Sure it is. People die all the time, have one of their lungs."

Sam closes his eyes briefly. "Yeah, but not everyone's a donor. There are only about a thousand transplants per year, Dean. Do you know how many people are waiting for them?"

"But you can get one," Dean presses, he knows he's starting to sound desperate but he doesn't really care at this point.

"I'm on the list," Sam shrugs. "But I my hearts kinda messed up, too. They won't risk a lung transplant if my heart's going to give out anyway. I need a heart-lung transplant and they're not exactly growing them on trees. I'm not getting my hopes up. I'm just trying to graduate."

Dean's skin grows hot. "What the hell is the point of finishing college if you won't even be around to use that fancy degree?" he growls. "Forget school!"

"This is what I want to do with my life," Sam grinds out. "Or at least how much of my life I have left. At least one day I might be able to say I graduated from Stanford, even if I'm lying in my deathbed two weeks later."

"Jesus, Sam – "

"Boys, enough!" John snaps, he turns to Dean. "This isn't helping."

The silence between them is a little too heavy for comfort.

"Hey," Sam pipes up suddenly. "Did you know the first heart-lung transplant happened here in Stanford in 1981 for a patient with Pulmonary Hypertension?"

"Oh really?" Dean had to admit that was kinda cool. "They survived, right?"

"Yeah. It was successful."

"Good to know."

"Yeah."

Sam sighs and gets to his feet. "I was planning on sleeping before you guys turned up. I don't think I can change my plans, I'm kind of exhausted."

"Get some sleep then," Dean encourages. He follows Sam over to the bed, hands reaching out a little, just in case. Sam shrugs away from him and drops onto the edge of the bed, tugging his shoes off.

"Taking out the trash is real tiring," Sam jokes as he lays down. "No offense, but it's kinda creepy if you watch me sleep…"

His eyes are already drifting closed. "Would you mind switch it to the mask?" he asks, gesturing lazily to the cannula. Sam's already sleeping when Dean figures out how to switch it, and he doesn't even wake up when Dean unhooks the tube from his nose and places the mask over instead.

There's no beer in the fridge, what with Sam being a sick kid and all, so John and Dean sit at Sam's tiny kitchen table and sip coffee as they watch their youngest sleep on the other side of the room, taking comfort in the way his breaths fog the mask.

"This is shitty," Dean remarks. John grunts his agreement.

"I mean, we have to do something," Dean goes on. "We can fix this, right?"

John doesn't say anything.

"We know stuff doctors don't know, we could find a hoodoo priest or a witch or a – "

"Dean," John warns, "Stop."

Dean stares at him incredulously. "We're doing something about this," he says sharply, "You heard what he said; his heart's gonna give out one day. I'm not just sitting around and letting my little brother die."

"Dean, finding a fix for this means leaving," his dad says. "I'm not leaving him."

Dean blinks at him. He knows his dad better than anyone else in the world, but there are still times when up is down and down is up when it comes to John. Dean had expected his dad to agree with him, his dad is always figuring things out and now he just wants to do nothing?

"And what can we do if we just stay here, huh?" Dean demands. "I don't want to leave him any more than you do but we have to make him well again, _then_ we can hang out with the dork as much as we like."

John sighs wearily. "I tossed my kid out," he says. "I told him not to come back and now he's sick and I wasn't there for him. Your mom would kick my ass if she were here."

"You were trying to keep him safe," Dean defended.

"I try to do a lot of things but they never really work out how I plan," his dad admits. "I wanted this whole thing to be over, kill the demon, give you boys the life you deserve. I can't keep making promises I can't keep, especially to Sammy."

"If you won't do something, I will," Dean says.

 

* * *

 

 

John sits by Sam when he wakes. His face is mostly covered by the oxygen mask and that ridiculous mop of hair hanging over his face. It's been two hours since Dean left and the sun is setting outside. Sam's eyes flutter tiredly as he glances around before focusing on John.

"Dad…" Sam breathes, voice muffled by the mask. He closes his eyes for a long second before hoisting himself a little upright. He leans heavily against the headboard, his voice comes out barely more than a whisper, "Hey."

"Hey," John says with a smile, for a moment he can forget their last ugly encounter before Sam left for school.

Sam glances around again. "Where's Dean?"

He looks so hopeful that John's almost tempted to lie. "He's gone," he tells him honestly. "He's going to find a way to get you better."

Sam lets out a raspy laugh. "Unless he's got some spare lungs and a heart he's not going to get far," he grunts, fiddling around for the nasal cannula. He takes off the mask and replaces it with the tube, leaning back to look at John.

" _Our_ kind of help, Sammy," John says. Sam's eyes are drooped with fatigue, but it's clear he's a little shocked.

"He can't do that," he gasps. "How stupid can he be?"

"He knows what he's doing," John assures. "Dean's more capable than you think."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I know he's capable, but things like this never come without a price. I don't want to be responsible for something like that!"

He's getting too worked up, lips turning a little pale. John pulls the bed covers up over Sam and shushes him gently. "You need to calm down, son," he says. "Don't worry about it. We've got some people who owe us. We'll get you better, you'll see."

Sam glares at him and it's clear that he doesn't believe John any more than John does. He leans forward slightly, face softening. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," he says. "When I'm not here anymore. Promise me you won't leave him. You know how hard it'll be for him when I'm gone."

"Sammy…"

"Promise me."

John isn't sure what hurts more; the fact that Sam is dying and he knows it, or the fact that he doesn't seem to think John will be as broken by it as Dean will be. He wants to tell Sam just how much it will kill him when he dies, he wants to tell him just how much it has always killed him to know what that demon did to Sam and what would happen to him if he lived long enough. He doesn't say any of this, he says, "I promise."

He cooks Sam dinner that night, his cooking skills are a little rusty but Sam eats it all, which is a good sign to John, and he makes sure Sam takes all of his medication, then gets him into bed. Sam has trouble getting around on his own he's so weak and out of breath, but Sam promises him it isn't always like that, he was just dumb enough to go out for five minutes without any oxygen. Normally, Sam gets around fine on his own. John isn't sure he believes him.

"Jim told me he's been helping you out," he says. Sam rolls onto his side under the covers and looks up at him.

"Just with money and bills," Sam says. "I'm going to try to pay him back but… I don't know how yet."

"Has anyone been helping you out here?" John asks. "Getting around and stuff like that?"

Sam glances away awkwardly. "Um, my friends. Zach brings me notes and assignments, and picks up groceries sometimes. And Becca, his sister, she comes over and cleans or cooks, or just generally fusses."

"Sounds like you've got some good friends," John remarks. Sam nods. John sighs, "I'm sorry you thought you couldn't ask me for help. That was… I'm sorry."

"Is that what you're doing now?" Sam asks. "Are you helping me now to make up for it?"

John shakes his head and brushes his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam looks a little surprised at first but he doesn't move to push his hand away. "I'm helping because I'm your father and I just want you to be okay."

"I'm not okay, Dad," Sam reminds him softly, as if that oxygen mask isn't enough of a reminder. "I mean, I could die years from now or months from now, but one way or another this illness is going to get me."

Sam pauses, then says, "Dad, please don't cry."

John hadn't realised he was.

 

* * *

 

 

_A month later_

Sam listens to his dad on the phone as he brushes his teeth. He pauses, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, and he leans against the bathroom door. It sounds like Dean's magically-cure-Sammy plan isn't going very well, judging by the exasperated noises their dad is making.

"We can get Bobby to look into it… yes, I'm well aware that me and Bobby aren't on the best of terms but this is about Sam… no, I don't think so… he seems better lately, yeah, he's eating fine, getting around fine… look, Dean-o, just come back to Palo Alto, okay?... because Sam needs you _here_ … Dean… Dean, that's an order… good, I'll see you in a couple of days."

Sam hears footsteps coming in his direction and he tiptoes back to the sink and pretends he's been brushing his teeth the whole time. The door pops open and his dad sticks his head around.

"You doing okay in here?" he asks.

Sam spits into the sink, then looks at John in the mirror. "I'm just brushing my teeth," he says. "I'm fine. Would you mind knocking next time?"

"Sure," John says, breaking out into a sly grin. "So long as you quit eavesdropping on my phone calls."

And he disappears again, clicking the door shut behind him. Sam blinks at himself in the mirror. How the hell did he know that he was listening in? God, he swears his dad knows everything. He rinses his mouth and spits, then dabs his mouth dry on the towel hanging to his right.

He inspects his reflection. His dad is right that he's been better lately, there's no blue tinge around his mouth anymore and he doesn't look so tired these days. It's been really helpful having his dad around almost all the time. Miraculously they haven't bitten each other's heads of yet. In fact, it's been kinda nice. He feels safe when he goes to sleep at night, that's for sure.

The tube running under his nose is something he can't really get used to, the one giveaway that he's sick sits smack bang in the centre of his face. He wishes it wasn't there because everyone on the street stares, even other students in class. It's worse with waitresses or shop assistants who fuss over him like he's mentally deficient. But he kinda needs the tube there to breathe and, you know, not die.

He's feeling a little giddy when he leaves the bathroom and says, "So Dean's coming back?"

"He's on his way," John confirms, sorting through some cash at the kitchen table. Sam had asked his dad where the money came from but he hadn't gotten a straight answer. He hadn't bothered asking about it again.

"We could go to that diner we went to the other week," Sam suggests. "I reckon he'd like it there, especially that redhead waitress."

"We could do that," his dad agrees, smiling. Sam gins back because, fading mortality or not, he feels like a real family for the first time in, well, ever. It's great, even if he's clinging onto his scholarship by the tips of his fingers, and he's sharing a tiny apartment with his dad, he feels _normal._

His dad gets to his feet and grabs a few bills off the table, shovelling the rest back into a paper bag that he keeps under the kitchen sink, and pats Sam on the shoulder. "I'm going to the store, okay? I'll be back soon."

Sam waves him out the door and sinks down onto the couch, flipping open one of his school text books. He pauses mid-paragraph when he sees his dad's duffel lying unopened with his journal sticking out. _The_ Journal. The one Sam and Dean are rarely allowed near, and can barely decipher when they are.

He places his text book down on the couch seat beside him and leans forward to snatch up the journal. It's a bulky thing, crammed with scrawled writing and newspaper clippings. He lingers at the front of the book where a photo of his mother is clipped. Dean looks a lot like her, he looks a lot like the perfect mix of her and their dad. Sometimes, Sam wishes he looked a little more like his parents. He doesn't have any clue where he got his eyes from, certainly not Mom or Dad. He flips through the journal, scanning whatever grabs his interest.

He stops when he lands on a small entry under the date his brother and dad first arrived.

_Feb 17._

_Maybe it's for the best._

And that's it. Sam re-reads it a few times, just in case there's some hidden message he missed. Nothing. What the hell does that mean? That has to be about him, right?

_Maybe it's for the best._

Maybe what's for the best? Maybe it's for the best that Dean left to find a cure or maybe it's for the best that John stays and Dean goes. Or maybe it's for the best that Sam is dying. Suddenly, that perfect, limited existence that Sam had is gone. Suddenly, Sam doesn't feel so safe anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean lets himself into Sam's apartment. He expects yelling, he expects Sam and John at each other's throats, he doesn't expect silence. John has his nose in his journal, sitting at the table in the kitchenette, Sam is lounging on his bed with a book on his lap and a tube running under his nose.

"This is… civil," Dean remarks. Sam looks up and smiles.

"Hey," he greets, he looks relieved. Dean glances over to his dad, takes in the peace and quiet in the room, and wonders what's happened.

"Uh, hey," he replies, dropping his bag by the door. "How you doing, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs. "Still breathing," he says, eyes flicking over to John briefly. "Come on, let's go out for dinner."

Dean blinks. "Go out?" he repeats, Sam is already getting up, slipping the strap of the oxygen tank over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Sam says like Dean's stupid. "You know, like a diner. There's this one place you'll like down the street."

"Uh, okay," Dean shrugs. "Let's go then."

Sam is already opening the door, not even glancing back to check if their dad is coming. Sam waits for him by the impala while Dean waits for his dad to catch up.

"Is everything okay?" he asks John quietly.

His dad shrugs. "He's been acting weird for the past couple of days, won't look me in the eye, seems jumpy."

"Huh," Dean sighs. "I'll talk to him."

Their waitress is this super-hot redhead with plump pink lip-glossed lips, and one of the greatest cleavages Dean has ever encountered. Sam nudges him when he stares too long, but the waitress doesn't seem to mind and writes her phone number on his napkin when she brings his burger, which is also goddamned delicious.

He waits for John to go to the bathroom before talking to Sam.

"You okay, dude?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sam nods. He seems worse than he was back at the apartment, pale and wheezing a little.

"Something happen with you and Dad?"

Sam's eyes go straight down to the table. Gotcha, Dean thinks. He's not surprised that his dad did something to upset Sam without even noticing. Sam's a little sensitive like that.

"What happened with Dad?" he asks.

Sam purses his lips together, thinking. He hasn't seen Sam this wound up over their Dad in a long time.

"I don't…" Sam pauses, "Okay. I read his journal."

Dean shrugs, it's not like he hasn't done that plenty of times himself.

"Under the date that you guys first showed up here he wrote, _maybe it's for the best_ ," he stops and looks at Dean, waiting for an answer or a reaction. Dean isn't sure he follows.

Sam sighs and goes on. "He's talking about me. Maybe it's for the best that I'm sick, that I'm dying."

Dean is speechless. For a second he isn't sure if he heard correctly, but Sam is looking at him with this anxious look on his face as he waits for an answer. Dean sighs.

"Sammy, I know you're kinda oxygen deprived a lot of the time now, and maybe that big brain of yours is a little slow or something," he says, "But Dad _isn't_ glad that you're sick, alright?"

"But why would he write that?" Sam demands, his breaths are shorter now.

"You're just thinking too much," Dean brushes it off. "You're tired and sick, but there's nothing to worry about. I bet by the time you wake up in the morning you'll be laughing about it. I mean, come on, Sam, this is ridiculous."

Sam shrinks back into the booth, looking away from Dean, he looks hurt and his eyes are glossy. Sam blinks rapidly and turns away to discreetly wipe at his eyes. Dean rubs his brother's back in sympathy, the poor kid is really tired.

"Sorry I skipped out on you," Dean says softly. "I know I should have stuck around least to tell you I'd be gone, it's just that I'd never forgive myself if I didn't try to do something."

"It's okay, I get it," Sam shrugs. "Just… don't leave again, okay?"

"I won't," Dean promises.

"So, how was the search for the miracle cure?" Sam asks.

"I will find something, Sam, I promise."

Sam looks at him sadly. "I know.

 

* * *

 

 

_Four months later_

There's this pager Sam has to keep on him at all times now. If he's lucky enough for some poor stranger to die, then the pager will go off and he can go get a new heart and set of lungs.

Things have gotten worse.

It started not long after Dean first came back, not long after Sam had told Dean about his fears and Dean had just brushed it off like it was nothing. Sam doesn't exactly remember what happened, but he remembers waking up in hospital with a tube sticking out of his mouth. They took it out pretty quick, put the mask back over his face.

Dean kept going on about how everything would be fine and that he would find a way to fix everything. The doctor begged to differ and told Sam that he was now on the critical list for a transplant, which basically meant that Sam's time was seriously running out.

Where Dean was holding back tears, his dad was actually crying.

 _Maybe it's for the best_.

And maybe it is. Once Sam is gone, the two of them can go back to saving the world instead of taking care of Sam, who is no longer able to get up and take a piss by himself. At least he was allowed to come home, his apartment may be small but it's _his_. He'd much rather die here than in a hospital. School is out of the question, of course, they're putting Sam's scholarship and schooling on hold. He reckons they're just being nice to a dying kid when they know he's never going to graduate anyway.

He's lying in bed, because that's all he can to now, with the full mask over his mouth, because that's how it is these days, and he stares at the pager and imagines it going off.

Dean is cooking in the kitchen even though no matter what he's making Sam won't be able to eat much of it. Their dad is sitting on the couch, in the middle of his hundredth phone call of the day trying to find a cure. For a guy who think _maybe it's for the best,_ he sure puts a lot of effort into keeping Sam living.

"Want mushroom in your pasta sauce, Sammy?" Dean calls. Sam isn't sure why he bothers asking when he knows Sam hasn't got much breath left for talking. He just holds his thumb up, even though he's not bothered about mushrooms in his pasta sauce. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself drift.

Dean shakes him, a little too hard because he probably thought Sam bit it in his sleep. He lets out a heavy breath when Sam opens his eyes and says, "Soup's on."

Sam nods and lets Dean help him sit upright. He lets him spoon a couple of pieces of pasta into his mouth before turning away and pulling the mask back down.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleads, "You need your strength. You're too thin."

Sam laughs on the inside because there's not enough breath left to do it on the outside. He pushes the hand holding the fork away. Dean reluctantly sets the bowl down on the bedside table.

"You want to go back to sleep?" he asks quietly, smoothing out the sheets.

Sam shakes his head, mimics writing with his hands.

"You want to… write?"

Yes.

Dean fetches a pad and pen from Sam's unused desk and sets it down on his lap. Even writing is hard, even when it's just one word. He shows Dean the paper.

"Beach?" Dean reads, surprised. "You want to go to the beach?"

Sam nods.

Dean frowns, looking unsure. "I don't know, Sammy. Maybe that's not the best idea."

Sam grabs the front of Dean's shirt and looks at him pleadingly. He just wants to go outside; he just wants to see a freaking sunset over the ocean one last time. Please. Dean must get it because he nods, cards his fingers through Sam's hair and says, "Okay, Sammy."

Moving a seriously sick person two blocks over to the beach is difficult. Well, Sam assumes it is, he's not the one doing the heavy lifting anyway. Sam might weigh as much as a bag of bones these days, but John and Dean have to manoeuvre oxygen and all of the tubes that come with it. Dean has wrapped him up in his leather jacket, some sweats and two pairs of socks. Oxygen-deprivation can make a person a little chilly. They carry him as delicately as if he were a new-born and lay him out in the back seat of the Impala with his head on Dean's lap as their Dad drives.

One last drive, Sam thinks. He closes his eyes, smiling as he feels the engine rumble beneath them, it's like being home again. He doesn't remember arriving at the beach but when he opens his eyes he's being lifted out of the car and he can see the ocean.

They've found a secluded spot hidden by rock pools, and his dad and brother carefully place him down on the sand. John sits behind him, keeping him upright while Dean fusses about, tucking him into a wool blanket that's been in the Impala's trunk for as long as Sam can remember.

Dean pulls Sam's socks off when he notices Sam trying to dig his toes into the sand, then he sits down next to the two of them, leans in. Sam takes in a thin breath and smiles, watching the sun dip slowly down. The sky is bright orange and pink, lighting up the sky like it's on fire.

They sit there for a while, John and Dean talk as Sam listens to stories of hunts he missed, of times when they were young, they even talk about Mary. As Sam lies against his dad he wishes he could tell him that he forgives him, that if he meant what he wrote in his journal then he understands. He wonders if his dad has felt this uncleanliness in him as long as Sam has.

 _Maybe it's for the best_.

If this is the end, Sam thinks it's a good way to go. That is, until there's a tight pain in his chest. He is so weak that it takes John and Dean a while to even notice something's wrong. He can barely lift a hand but he's trying to grip his chest. Then he's choking, and he can taste metal.

"Oh God!" Dean cries. He's being pushed onto his side and he coughs all over the sand, turning it red. Dean keeps yelling and Dad is holding his head, Sam thinks he's speaking to him but he can't really make out the words.

He turns his eyes to watch the sunset, the sun has almost disappeared. It's the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes. The last thing he feels is vibration in his front pocket, the last thing he hears is the beeper going off on the pager telling him he has a new heart and lungs. If he's lucky, he'll hold on a little longer. Maybe one day soon he'll wake up and breathe, Sam thinks.

Just breathe.


End file.
